Angels at Christmas by Debbie Macomber

explain what happened, but I swear I didn’t hit you.”
    â€œWould you stop telling me how innocent you are?” Then it dawned on her that he was afraid she was going to sue him. As a man with deep pockets, he’d be worried about lawsuits.
    â€œNope, I don’t see any evidence here at all,” the police officer said, frowning in puzzlement.
    Men always stick together, Julie thought irritably. Well, if that was what the police had decided, so be it.
    â€œI’ll leave it for you two to settle,” the officer said.
    â€œThank you,” Roy told him.
    The paramedics climbed back into their vehicle and drove off, and shortly afterward the police car followed.
    â€œLook at my bike!” Julie studied the damage to her ten-speed. The entire back wheel was bent and twisted; the frame had buckled beyond repair.
    â€œI’ll buy you another,” Fletcher said as he loaded her crumpled bike into the trunk of his car.
    â€œSo you are admitting responsibility,” she challenged, hands on her hips.
    â€œNo,” he said in a flat, businesslike tone.
    â€œYou don’t have to worry. I have no intention of suing you.”
    He didn’t respond as he opened the passenger door. “Get in,” he said curtly.
    â€œWhere are you taking me?”
    â€œTo my personal physician.”
    â€œI said I’m not hurt.”
    â€œI know what you said. Now are you going to do as I ask, or do I have to put you inside this car myself?”
    Julie could see it was pointless to argue; he was determined to do things his way. “Oh, all right,” she said with a complete lack of graciousness.
    He slipped into the driver’s seat and exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”
    Julie crossed her arms and tried to stifle a laugh.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?”
    â€œNothing.” But then she couldn’t help it and burst out laughing.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s you,” she said between peals of laughter. “You said ‘thank you.’ Were you thanking me for sparing you the effort of having to physically lift me?”
    â€œNo.” He apparently lacked even the most rudimentary sense of humor. “I was thanking you for not putting up any more of a fuss than you already have.”
    He started the engine. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
    Until he asked, she’d totally forgotten. “Dad’s lunch. It’s on the bike. He forgot it this morning and I was taking it to him.” She turned around and looked behind her, wondering if his lunch had somehow survived the collision. “I need to get it to him.”
    â€œYour father can go without lunch—getting you to a doctor is more important at the moment.”
    She glared at him, and he groaned audibly.
    â€œOh, all right.” Without her having to say another word, he drove up to the main entrance and parked. “Stay where you are,” Fletcher ordered.
    â€œI wouldn’t dream of doing anything else,” she said with exaggerated sweetness.
    He looked as though he doubted her, then quickly leaped out of the car. Removing her sorely bent and abused ten-speed, he leaned it against the building. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but a moment later, the side mirror on the passenger door gave her a brief view of him on his cell phone.
    â€œDid you tell my dad I wasn’t hurt?” she asked when he got back in the car.
    â€œNo, I was talking to Dr. Wilbur.”
    Great, just great. Her father would find her bike, a crumpled mess, and assume the worst. “Give me that phone.”
    He stared at her as if no one ever spoke to him like that. “Please,” she added, realizing how rude she must sound. “I’ve got to tell Dad I’m all right. He won’t know what to think if he finds that.”
    â€œBy the way,” he said wryly, “his lunch did not sustain any mishap. The sandwich isn’t smashed at all. I thought